


Aerosmith and a Broken Guitar

by BadassCompany



Series: The Things We Did (But Never Spoke Of) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aerosmith, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Canon Compliant, Completed, Destiel - Freeform, Drug Use, Emotional Sex, End!verse, Episode: s05e04 The End, Fallen Castiel, Falling Angels, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Human Castiel, Humanity, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Grace, Love, M/M, Mentioned Substance Abuse, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Smut, Tragic Love, Vulnerability, Way Too Many Feelings, coda fic, destiel smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadassCompany/pseuds/BadassCompany
Summary: "Where do fallen angels go? They keep falling."I came to him a force of nature, a storm lost on the wind, asking to be let inside.The story of Dean and Castiel's broken, passionate love in the End!verse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago as part of a planned series but I wanted to finish the series before I posted it. I now realize that's probably not going to happen. However, this part is complete and I will be posting other parts as I edit them and fix them up.   
> I love the end!verse. Shameless porn with way too many feelings. Hope you enjoy, my lovelies ;)

In another world, a few wrong choices down the line, we were lovers.

 I wonder if there are a thousand universes, and if in every single one of them, we found each other. 

Anyways. 

There was a man, at Camp Chitaqua, who played guitar. There were only a few songs he could play with the strings left on the only guitar, and fewer that he remembered. I sat and listened to him sometimes. There was one song in particular, only a fragment of which he played, that I always paid attention to. I thought that somewhere, in the midst of the war around us and the confusion within, I might find an answer in that song. Dean would've laughed if I told him that.  


_Sometimes I stare out my window, my thoughts all drift into space  
_ _Sometimes I'm wondering if there's a better place_

_Tell me, where do fallen angels go?  
_ _I just don't know  
_ _Where do fallen angels go?  
_ _They keep falling_

_Now the times is frightening, can't ignore the facts  
_ _There's so many people just slipping through the cracks_

_So many ashes are scattered, so many rivers run dry  
_ _Sometimes your heaven is hell and you don't know why_

_And we're all or nowhere, we still pay the price  
_ _Yeah the Devil seems to find his way into paradise_

Sometimes the man would notice me watching him, listening, and he would pause in the song. None of the newcomers, the ones who came after Sam said yes, really knew my story. It got tiring to tell it again and again. He'd heard rumors, no doubt. Dean Winchester's fallen Angel. The one who rebelled against heaven and got us here. Castiel - the one who stayed behind. After a moment, I would nod at him, and he would continue. He seemed to get stuck on the _I just don't know_ , and repeat it again and again until he remembered the words. I thought this was apt.

He died a while ago. Headshot after he was infected by the Croatoan virus. I picked up his guitar and hid it in my cabin, so it wouldn't get turned into scrap material. It only had three rusty strings, and I held it across my lap. I didn't know how to play. I wondered if it was true. Was I falling? Still falling, after everything?

 

I remember when it all started. When we came here, I was still an angel. I didn't need to sleep. I spent the days on patrols, healing the sick, and walking in the forests. The nights, I spent watching over him. Memorizing the curve of his back, so much more peaceful in sleep than in waking. Sometimes he would cry out, nightmares of fire raking through his mind, and I would go to him. Clasp his hand firmly and whisper words in Enochian until he calmed. Other times, he would wake, look at me, and blink. Once he muttered something hoarsely about taking my damn coat off and sitting down. I'd never thought of that before.

My trenchcoat was burnt to a cinder by a grenade in a Croat raid gone wrong. After that, I sat on the edge of his bed.

 

It all changed the day the angels left. I felt it like a tearing in my chest, a hollowness. It started raining, and the remnants of my powers, my grace, they were gone. I fell to my knees in the rain, felt real pain bite into my knees, real blood trickle from my skin. I laughed. Cried. Shouted in anger, and oh, my voice, it felt like a roar, but it was so weak. The glass stayed firmly in the windows, the trees did not shake. I cried out to God. _Where are you? Where are you?! I believed in..._

God didn't answer, so I made my way to Dean Winchester's door.

 

I came to him a force of nature, a storm lost on the wind, asking to be let inside.

He cleaned the dirt off my face, felt my shaking hands and I let him. I knew nothing else, no one else to trust, so I let him. And when he took me into his arms, warm and solid, I thought how much bigger he seemed now that I was human. How much bigger than me he was, now that there was a burning in my shoulder-blades where my wings had been, where they'd been ripped away. Unknowingly, his hands pressed in just that place, and I let out a sob. He whispered my name over and over again, a litany of _Cas._ There were other words in between too, like _Sorry_ and _Jesus_ and _fuck_ and _need_. I didn't pay them any mind.

Tears slid down my face, and the first words I said were, "Why can't I breathe?"

He gasped, a horrible shuddering thing like I'd punched him, and pulled back. Tears glistened angrily in the edges of his eyes as he tried to hold them back. He opened his mouth to explain, but instead I leaned forward and met his open lips with mine. I pushed against him, body trembling with something I now recognize as wild, hopeless need.

He kissed me back. He kept murmuring words in between our kisses, like ‘slow’ and ‘are you – sure?’ but I ignored them all, shaking my head when he spoke, pressing up against him. We were messy and unpracticed, like two school boys, but as we stood there, the rain pounding and shaking the roof, I felt the war, the anger, the exhaustion melt out of him. It was as though my kiss had purified him, and he kept coming back for more.

It felt so good. It felt like destiny, because how could it ever have been any other way? _Es muss seine,_ Beethoven would have said. I had saved him from hell, he had saved me from heaven, together, we had failed. And now we were here. Es muss seine. It must be.

We ripped our clothes away, careless with desperation. His skin felt perfect against mine, and I glided my hands over his scars, his muscles, his cock. "Mine," I whispered.

"Yours," he answered unshakingly.

I blinked. I hadn't expected him to admit it. Perhaps he was only saying it to ground me. When opened his eyes, went to say more, I lifted a single finger to his lips. I didn't want to hear it, any of it. I spoke a thousand languages and none of them spoke as clearly as his heartbeat thrumming against mine.

He reached out, and handed me what appeared to be cooking oil. I cocked my head to one side, and he let out a throaty groan before squeezing some onto my fingers. He guided them between his thighs, between his butt cheeks, and pushed them inside. My eyes went wide. Precum dribbled down my dick, and I started thrusting my finger in and out of him. He closed his eyes, and I growled at the loss of that absynth green, that rough shine. He whispered instructions to me through gritted teeth, telling me what to do.

Neither of us could wait any longer. When he was barely open enough, I coated my cock in the oil. He watched me, eyes blazing. I hoisted him up, my arms trembling with the effort, and he let out a surprised grunt. He wrapped his legs around my waist and then I thrust inside him.

 I didn't hold back. Everything I had lost, every part of myself that was gone, I took it back in him, with seizing hot pleasure and nails up my back and beautiful curses.


	2. Chapter 2

I think that there was never a night better than that night, not in all my aeons of existence. What I remain undecided on, however, is what my worst night was. One sticks out to me in particular.

 

Sam said yes in Detroit. Dean broke. He came to me, whiskey shot eyes, clenching his gun in his hand and not letting go. I pried it away, eventually, and led him inside. When I took away his gun, the thigh holster, the knife at his ankle and the one strapped to his forearm, he threw himself at me. Maybe he thought I was undressing him, I don't know. He tried to kiss me, sloppily, breath hot and reeking of alcohol.

 I kissed him back slowly, calmly. If this was what he needed, I would give it. He had been there, taught me how to be human, sat with me when I broke my foot. We were all we had left now.

But as we kissed, he grew more frantic, more distressed. While my own treacherous body responded to his desperate advances, I noticed he was still soft in his jeans. I gently put a finger to his lips and pushed him away. When he realized what the matter was, he glared disparagingly down at his crotch, and muttered something about too much whiskey.

I took his hand and squeezed it. It was a warm, late summer afternoon, and I lost myself in the sunset. I didn't know how to help him. I thought once I was fully human, fully fallen, I would know. I was wrong. 

It took me a few moments to realize he was saying something. "Sammy... Sammy said yes, Cas. Devil's riding his bones," he managed with a stuttering laugh. I closed my eyes. "I was meant to protect him. Dad always said to." His words were broken, choppy, and I wished more than anything that he would stop talking. "I fucked up. Fucked up bad, Cas." 

"No, Dean." I stroked my thumb over the back of his hand, tracing the outline of his knuckles.

 "Failed him like every godforsaken thing I care about," He said, tears beginning to stream down his face. "My fault. This," he gestured around, hands making crooked lines through the air, "It's all my fault. I broke it."

 "That's not true, Dean." I pressed my lips together, to stop them from trembling. My throat ached to let a sob out. The feeling was becoming ever more familiar to me, but I held the tears back.

 "How can _you_ fucking say that to me?!" He reared away, face twisting. "You, of all people."

 I frowned. "I love you."

It wasn't like I hadn't said it before. But this time, it seemed to really sink in, and he didn't look like he liked the implications much. "Yeah," he said. "And look what I did to you." 

I swallowed. "Dean, you don't know what you're-"

 "I broke you," he said. And then he laughed, until he started choking. I sat there, frozen, watching him struggle to breathe. Finally, he calmed, and cleared his throat. I stared. 

"I'm not - you don't -" The words that should have come easily faltered on the edge of my tongue. 

"I mean look at you. You used to be a bigshot angel... Dragged my ass outta hell. You shouldn't have bothered." _That's not true,_ I wanted to say. My lips did not cooperate. "Broke you," he slurred. "Fuck, Cas. I'm so sorry." He fell off the chair where he was sitting, to his knees. He took both of my hands in his and looking at him then, I was more reminded of what his soul had looked like when I dragged it out of Hell than I was of the man I had grown to love. "You shouldn't even be here. With me. Did I - did I break your wings?" he asked quietly. "Human," he laughed. I was steadily starting to hate those shuddering laughs, and so I laid a finger to his lips to stop him from speaking.

I gathered him up off the floor and into my arms, feeling my muscles strain and thinking how easy it would be if I was an angel. How easy it would all be. How he wouldn't be saying the things he was saying. I lay down beside him on the bed. His breathing quickly evened out as he fell deep into unconsciousness, but sleep didn't come to me. I lay awake, watching him, making sure his breath didn't catch in his throat.

 

 _I'm not broken._ Why hadn't I said it? Why hadn't I screamed it at him? 

Maybe because, him having been human for longer, he knew better about such things. If he said I was broken, he was probably right.

My heart was heavy, but even then, I didn't want to leave him. When he was asleep, I couldn't see the guilt soaking his red eyes, so I took this opportunity to watch him. My stomach turned when I thought of what he said. He regretted me, he regretted everything. I clung to him tighter. I stayed because we needed each other, no matter how much we hurt ourselves in the process.

When he woke up, he huddled closer to me, as if he could shield himself from the pain in his head. Once, I could have flicked my fingers and made it go away. Now all I had to offer was a glass of water. 

He finally spoke, and set the glass down with shaking hands. "I'm sorry." 

Oh, the folly of men! A wave of relief swept over me. He hadn't meant it. None of it. He was sorry. It didn't matter. Still, I stayed frozen, although my gaze softened. Hesitantly, he reached out, and brushed the side of my cheek with his fingers. I melted into his touch, taking it as proof, proof that I wasn't broken, that we were all right. 

He was gentle, to the point of uncertainty. Never, in all the times we had made love, had he been like this. Later, I realized this is how you treat a broken thing. Gingerly.

 He took my clothes off slowly, treasuring each inch of revealed skin with his lips. When I tried to turn him over, to pin him down - as I usually did - he stopped me. So I sank back down onto the pillows, and let him have his way with me. He planted open-mouthed kisses on my collarbone, making me shiver. Ran his hands along the curve of my hips. Trailed the pads of his fingers over the muscles of my chest. 

He spent hours, touching my body. Making me keen and whimper. All the while, that look in his eyes; soft and sad but determined. He worshiped me, pure and simple. Ducked his head between my thighs and licked at my entrance, his hot, wet tongue drawing circles on the inside of me. Kissed every inch of me, made my skin tingle. 

I was hard and wanting, but too lost in his touches to ask for more. I was almost surprised when he finally licked up the length of my dick and lapped his tongue at the head. He sunk down on me slowly, lips stretching around my flesh. I moaned, and the world might have been ending outside, but I didn't care. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked me down into the hot darkness of his throat. 

I was mesmerized, lost in him. I came in his mouth, undone by the swirling flutter of his tongue on the underside of my cock. I ran a hand through his soft brown hair as he pulled off, licking his lips and looking up at me. All was forgotten. 

Until he said, "Can you forgive me?"

The words were so much worse, when his voice was deepened by sex and strewn with pain. I recognized now what that look in his eyes had been - how _sorry_ he was. For what had become of me. I clenched my jaw. I couldn't say it. Not now. _I'm not broken_ seemed like more of a lie every time I tried. Instead, I said, "I chose this. I chose you."

When he blinked, and a single tear fell onto my hipbone, I shoved his head away. I found my clothes on the floor and dragged them onto my body roughly. I could feel his eyes on my back all the while.

I walked out his door in much the same state I had once came in. That was the first time I took the pills. A few days after that was the first time I slept with someone else. Two weeks later, drugs, and sometime later, the orgies started. I lost myself. If he thought I was broken, then I would be. If only to forget that he thought I was, or that I was, or something... I lost the distinction somewhere along the line.

He became hardened. Much like he would have been if Sam hadn't been born, I think. Tougher, angrier. I still loved him. Needed him.

And I still came to him, and him to me, now and again.

While it seemed like it to the others at the camp, everything didn't end between us when I started to take drugs. He was my rock, as messed up as it was. I didn't sleep with him while I was high - I didn't even come near him. I might break apart if he touched me when I was wide eyed and vulnerable. Might tell him how I would choose it all again, how I would rather be broken for him than half-alive for God. How I hated all the things he had said, how they made the pit of my stomach feel hollow.

My body knew the touch of his hands like a traveler knows their first home. Only, I never wanted to leave. We fucked and had sex and even made love countless times. We sat on the porch and he hummed that old Aerosmith song when there was nothing to say. He didn't know I knew the words.

He held me after we had sex. For at least an hour. He did it so conscientiously, even when he had to leave, even when he was late, that I knew it was another apology. This one, though, this one I could stand. I knew if he left, I would take another handful of pills. So I claimed that hollow in his chest for my head, and I listened to his heart. I took comfort in the fact that he still wanted me, even after I was human. I trained to fight, so I would have a purpose. We fought back to back. When we were bloody and exhausted and half dead, he trudged back with me to my cabin, pushed aside the bead curtain as he cursed it, and nearly carried me to bed. And then he held me close and still. These were the things I treasured, a broken mortal though I might be.

Once or twice, I let myself imagine what it would be like if we _won._ Defeated the Devil. Stopped the Croats. It was foolish and nigh impossible. But I thought that then, maybe we could heal together, really heal. Our wounds might be scars instead of scabs. And in some alternate reality, where we were OK for once, I thought I might tell him. About the song, and how I thought the answers to my life as a human might be found in an Aerosmith song and a broken guitar. He would laugh, really laugh, like he used to. I smiled at the thought and closed my eyes, blissfully unaware of him watching me and his lips twitching as though they were trying to smile just as he was trying not to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

He came to me the night before the attack. His eyes were so soft that for a moment, I thought it might be 2009 Dean out for a walk. I wasn't sure how much that Dean knew, and so I said everything I could without explaining me and Dean to him per say. But no - it was my Dean, tonight. He thought maybe 2009 Dean could change things - he had hope that maybe, just maybe, all his perceived wrongs could be righted. I didn't care. We would die tomorrow, maybe take the Devil with us, but I wouldn't take it back.

Dean, my Dean, walked up to me slowly. I was outside, smoking a joint and staring up at the starry night sky. I forgot my qualms about not smoking in front of him - it was, after all, my last night on Earth. 

He stood beside me, and leaned back against the cabin wall. He was silent for a long time, and my joint was a cherry stub between my fingers when he did say, "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to hear it." I kicked dirt over the joint after dropping it to the floor ruefully.

"I know. But I mean something different now. I swear." And I paused. My brain entered a slight drug-fuelled haze, enabling me to hope, just for a split second. "I'm sorry for that night, all those years ago. The one after Detroit. When I... When I said..." He swallowed.

"I know what you said, Dean." I said bitterly.

"Right, but I... I was wrong." My breath caught in my throat. "You're not broken, Cas. Just human. And a little insane, to choose me over everything."

"It's been said." _He must be lying,_ I thought dimly.

"Tomorrow, we're going up against Lucifer. I gotta do whatever I have to to get a shot, you hear me? Feed whoever through the meat grinder I have to." His voice shook. "Cas, you with me?"

"Of course." I said. So, I'd gotten the courtesy apology followed by an enlistment letter for the lethal cause. I expected to die anyway. I might as well do it for him.

"Cas, I-"

I cut him off. "The only thing I think we have left, Dean, is each other. If you say it’s time to go out in a blaze of glory, win or lose, so be it. I’m in. But then…” I smiled at the ground, before darting my eyes up to him. I wasn't about to let him die thinking my pain, my inevitable death, was on his hands. "That’s just how I roll," I said.

He closed his mouth. Opened it. Closed it. "I heard you screaming," he said. "When you lost your wings."

I closed my eyes.

 "I thought you'd hate me. For telling you we could beat everything, and then... For how you stayed with me when all the other angels left. For not being able to protect you. And then you _needed me,_ instead. And I needed you, man, and I... I thought I must have done something wrong. To have hurt you and to still have it feel that right."

"I chose you," I reminded him. "And," I added thoughtfully, kicking a trail of dust in the ground. "I would do it again."

Tomorrow, I would go to die. I would come with him, because _of course_. But that night, there was one more thing. One more beautiful thing I wanted.

So I looked over at him, and I think he saw the storm gathering in my eyes. I leaned closer. Our lips collided, and I pulled him to me, pinning him up against the house walls. He moaned into our kissing, and I licked my way hungrily into his mouth. It felt good, to use this muscle and flesh and bone which was made for fighting wars to love him. We were soldiers, but in that moment, we were only fighting for air.

The night was cold, but our bodies were hot, and I ground against him. It didn't seem to matter that anyone could walk by, and if he didn't care, that was good enough for me. There were lights in his eyes, ones that looked like the reflection of lights on water. I knew they weren't really there, but I watched them intently nonetheless.

When we were both on the edge just from rocking together in our jeans, he grabbed my hips to stop me. I growled, until I felt what he pressed into my hand. Lube. I laughed. Probably with an expiration date of 2010, but what did that matter. I had no idea where he'd gotten it, and I didn't care. I ripped it open and we laughed as the smell of artificial strawberries filled the air. I unzipped his jeans and pulled them down around his ankles, watching hungrily as his hard cock sprung up to his stomach.

I reached up to begin to open him, but he breathed out harshly, "No, fuck Cas, just fuck me."

I drizzled my cock in lube, spreading it until my member was wetter than I could stand. I picked him up and he wrapped himself around me, like he had that first night. I pushed inside him, and he threw his head back, pleasure and pain warring for dominance in his expression.

We didn't last long. Hot sweat cooled on our necks, marks were sucked in hidden places, and I buried myself in the hot core of his being. I came inside him and he cried out as I jacked his throbbing cock, stroking every ounce of bliss out of him. His eyelids fluttered, and I carried him inside.

He would leave in an hour's time, I knew. Prepare for the dawn. I stared at the broken guitar in the corner, and thought perhaps it was true. And I fell asleep to his heartbeat, for the last time.

_Where do fallen angels go?_

_They keep falling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, give me a holler down in the comments below! :)  
> This was meant to be pure, unadulterated smut. But I couldn't help writing a fuckton of angst and feelings into it.  
> The 'that's just how I roll' line is from the original script from The End, which was changed when they actually shot the episode. But I loved it so much that I couldn't let it go.  
> I will be posting more canon compliant, emotional smut in the same series, so hit the subscribe button!  
> Thank you all for reading.   
> ~BadassCompany


End file.
